


Sick Geralt from Jaskier POV

by lunanoel



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Jaskier forgives Geralt bc he knows that Geralt's a dumbass, M/M, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Rated T for swearing, Sick Character, Sick Geralt, Sick Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Sickfic, Yen and Ciri are mentioned but do not appear, also bc he's pretty, the bath is brief
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:02:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22577500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunanoel/pseuds/lunanoel
Summary: I am weak for Sick Geralt so now you can have some.What if I just put any/all Sick Geralt fics I make in here from now on
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 27
Kudos: 381





	1. Jaskier and sick Geralt get back together

To say that Geralt’s words during the dragon adventure had hurt Jaskier would’ve initially been an understatement; without context (and a little bit with context) they crushed the bard to his core. He’d worked hard to boost the popularity of the witcher, knowing exactly what kind of treatment the White Wolf received from other people, and that was the thanks he got? A one-sided friendship and a mouth full of hatred? If he were a worse man, he could’ve written a negative ballad out of spite.

Jaskier wasn’t that type of person though, and after hearing the details from the dragon and her bodyguards it wasn’t difficult to forgive the silver oaf in his thoughts; the man had lost the love of his life because he’d preferred her alive, and Jaskier found himself even more irritated with Yennefer than he’d been after the djinn incident. She struck gold in the lovers department with Geralt, a man more handsome than anyone else Jaskier had ever seen, and she dumps him because she thinks their attraction towards each other is magic-based? What fucking bullocks.

Still, the bard knows he shouldn’t hang around the witcher when he’s in this kind of a mood; he’ll give Geralt a couple months to brood, and when they next meet they’ll be back to their same old banter. There probably won’t be a verbal apology, of course; that whole “witchers don’t have emotions” thing seems pretty ingrained in Geralt’s mind regardless of its validity, so he’ll probably hunt something tasty or do something else to make it up to the bard.

At least, that was what Jaskier had thought a few weeks after their separation. It’d been a whole year now and the White Wolf still hadn’t gotten around to finding him, though the war with Cintra and Nilfgaard probably had something to do with it. Rumors circulated that Geralt had finally picked up his Child of Surprise, who was 13 now and running for her life from Nilfgaardian forces. Where they could be was beyond the bard’s imagination, as he spent his days moving from town to town, playing at taverns and romancing maidens. It wouldn’t surprise him if there were some “Jaskier Jr.”s floating around at this point in his life (though no one had contacted him with that sort of news).

The night was going along like any other; “ _Toss a Coin to Your Witcher_ ” always made wallets shake with urgency, though he didn’t bring that little tune out as much lately, and some of the other hits he’d written post-adventures seemed to bring people to the edge of their seats in shock and amazement. He was so distracted by the cheers and sounds of people putting coins in his case, Jaskier had almost missed the hooded trio coming in from the storm outside and pulling up to the bar. Their conversation went on for about the length of “ _The Fishmonger’s Daughter_ ” before one handed the bartender some coin as the other two walked towards the staircase that led to the inn rooms.

The forgotten figure seemed to have a stumble in his step, his moves were sluggish and obviously plagued with exhaustion. Despite this, the man (obvious now from his frame) practically dragged himself back outside, immediately getting re-drenched from the ongoing downpour. A lock of silver escaping the cloak made Jaskier heart stutter, quickly gathering his stuff together and leaving the crowd to a younger bard as he went to follow what he hoped was his witcher.

He was rewarded when he entered the stables and found Geralt slumped against one of the pens. Roach was nuzzling her master in a worried manner, trying to get him a bit dryer to no avail. Jaskier was cautious in his approach, even though he knew the witcher had long sensed his presence.

“Been quite a while since I saw you, Geralt.” The bard began, carefully lowering himself to the cold, dirt ground. “Though I expect that was more your doing than mine.”

The other man just huffed, he was never much of a conversationalist.

“So how’d you get stuck in the pens? Have an argument with the Lion Cub of Cintra?”

“She seems more bonded to Yen than me.” Geralt finally grumbled, revealing a slight rasp to his voice. “Was told that ‘ladies need proper rest’.”

“Like you don’t?”

“Hmm.” the hum turned to a cough the witcher failed to suppress, a small fit that Jaskier found to be quite unexpected.

The bard turned to Geralt, observing him properly for the first time. The bags under his eyes weren’t new but definitely more prominent from the last time they’d met; there was a slight tremor in his limbs and a struggle in his breath. Even his eyes, which normally sparkled like topaz in the sun, were dulled by fever. He looked less like a dangerous wolf and more like a drowned pup, the comparison only intensifying when the poor man failed to stifle a series of sneezes.

_He’tchuu, het’chu, ‘chu!_

“Ooh, Geralt.” The bard felt his heart skip in concern, his hand moving unconsciously to check the man’s temperature. The witcher tried to snap back, but it was more a reflex than anything and Jaskier was able to avoid it and feel the skin boiling under his palm. “You’re this sick, and they still sent you out?”

“They- _*cough*_ they don’t know-”

“How could they not?! You’re burning alive here, Geralt!”

“Didn’t want them to.” He grumbled, obviously resisting the urge to lean into Jaskier’s touch. “Have to protect Ciri from Nilfgaard.”

“Nilfgaard’s been pushed back by the wizards now, Ciri will be safe for quite a while.”

“Could- _*cough*_ still send bandits- _*cough cough*_ ”

“Which is why Yen is protecting her tonight, right?” Jaskier stood slowly, lifting Geralt up with him. They stumbled slightly from the weight, but managed not to crash. “Come on, you can sleep in my room tonight.”

“Jaskier…”

“Don’t ‘Jaskier’ me! You’re not sleeping out here tonight, it’s far too cold out. And I know you haven’t gotten a bath in ages now - gross, is that ghoul guts?”

“Cemetaur.” the witcher clarified as his bard rolled his eyes.

“Of course you’d be picked to fight the most dangerous kind of necrophage in this state.”

“Hmm.”

The men stayed relatively quiet for a while, as Jaskier and Geralt made it up to the room the bard had splurged on. There was only one bed, of course, but that certainly wasn’t new for the pair (in their early days, they were often too poor to afford much else). The bath was drawn quickly for them upon seeing the witcher’s tremors, and Geralt soon found himself sinking into warm water that seemed much too cold to his fevered skin. He didn’t complain though; a bath was a bath, and warm water was often better at reducing fever than anything too hot or cold.

It wasn’t long before Jaskier found himself sitting down in the bath as well, next to the man who’d never apologized for his cruelty towards him. Somehow he didn’t really mind it; In fact, he found himself much more amused than angry, as he watched Geralt slowly loosen the grip on his tough facade. With silent permission, the bard took gentle care into unraveling the witcher’s hair from the well-worn tie that kept it together and he began to wash the dirt and guts out of it. Geralt relaxed quite easily under Jaskier’s touch, so much so that it was difficult to pull the tired man from the bath and into clean, dry clothes.

The undershirt and pants were actually the witcher’s size for once, as the bard had (stolen) forgotten to return them at different points in time. Geralt took a vial from his pack and downed it straight, making a face of disgust at the bitter taste of what he said was a cough suppressant. Jaskier laid Geralt down slowly, and the witcher seemed confused at just how much care the bard gave towards him. The words escaped his tired form before he could even process them.

“I’m sorry.”

Jaskier’s eyes widened for a moment, before he gave a small smile laid down next to Geralt.

“I forgave you so long ago.”

The smile that Geralt gives him back makes his heart skip again for different reasons than concern.

“Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *meanwhile elsewhere in the inn*  
> Ciri: you think we should check up on Geralt? He seemed sick  
> Yen: *saw Jaskier when they came in* He'll be fine


	2. Sick Geralt is recovering from a lake jump

“Geralt” 

The witcher paused in his attempts to sit up, turning to address his bard. “Hmm?”

“Geralt we discussed this, you need to rest.”

“I-i n-need-*cough cough*” The rasp in his voice turned into a coughing fit that lasted a full minute, leaving Geralt to hunched over and breathing heavily. The hand on his back gave him a sense of comfort, something foreign to him given his line of work. When he was able to control his breathing, he continued his thought. “I n-need t-to get us s-some coin, Jaskier.”

“We’re doing fine on coin, Geralt.” Jaskier sounded exasperated, which was unsurprising given how many times he’d had this conversation with the White Wolf. “You somehow managed to kill a griffin, even with this terrible awful fever boiling you alive, and I’ve been playing my lute every night to keep the innkeeper in our good graces. We’re set for at least another week.”

“N-not *cough* n-not good enough.” The witcher grumbled, obviously trying and failing to escape from the clutches of the covers. It showed just how weak he was that the light blanket he’d managed to shed was enough to pin his lower half to the bed. Jaskier wasn’t even sure why he’d wanted to leave in the first place, besides his stubbornness demanding it; he was obviously freezing, unable to suppress the shivers running through his body and the chattering of his teeth. “We’ll h-have t-to l-leave eventually, room’s f-far t-too expensive, even w-with th-the coin w-we h-have.”

“You seem to underestimate just how much coin we got from that griffin, Geralt. Your hard work has proven fruitful, even if it has left you in this unfortunate state.” Jaskier was gently pushing the witcher back down to rest, the latter surprised at the former’s sudden burst of strength. “Though being thrown into that lake during the fight probably didn’t help your state of illness.”

“F-felt n-nice at th-the t-time.” Geralt quipped, though he felt his energy draining quickly. “Was t-too warm.”

“And now you’re absolutely freezing so please, my dear witcher.” Jaskier pulled the covers back up on the silver-haired man, tucking the blanket tight around the two of them and adding another for good measure. He wrapped his arms around Geralt, pulling him close. “Go the fuck to sleep.”


	3. Geralt tries to push through and fails

Witchers, despite what the stories around them may imply, do in fact have limits; they can be affected by and even die from poison, untreated wounds, and illness just like anyone else. The difference, of course, was in the severity of damage they could endure. The trials that create witchers improve their body's natural immune system, allowing them to heal faster from things that might leave an ordinary man down for days. Those trials also left witchers a memory of excruciating pain that allowed them to shrug off a certain amount of injury. Because whatever they were experiencing was definitely bad and hurt terribly, but it could never compare to what they experienced in their trials.

These memories were currently being brought back to Geralt, as his head pounded something fierce in the summer heat. He'd been feeling a little under the weather a few days before when traveling through the woods with Jaskier, but had shrugged it off thinking his healing factor would take care of it. Now they were in a rather large town, bustling with noise and smells that overwhelmed his senses and gave him some pretty severe nausea. The harsh sunlight wasn't helping matters, practically blinding his sensitive eyes and making his headache feel even worse. 

When they'd first entered the town, Geralt had wanted nothing more than to stay at the local inn for a few days to silence Jaskier's constant whining (though he mainly just wanted to ride out whatever bug he'd caught, the bard's complaints were actually pretty minimal this time around). Unfortunately, he'd had a job to take care of first; a bruxa (of course it'd had to be a fucking bruxa) was luring people to the woods and draining them dry of blood. It had killed three already, almost four before Geralt was able to decapitate it with a silver sword. The fight had been unintentionally long, the witcher's waves of nausea, pounding skull, and aching joints were slowing down his reaction time quite a bit. He was lucky he hadn't gotten himself (or Jaskier) killed. The bruxa's constant and powerful screaming didn't exactly help matters either, especially when they broke through a Quen and slammed him against a few different trees. The number of potions he'd had to take for that fight certainly wasn't low, and now that the White Honey was starting to kick in his body was screaming at him for it.

Still, Geralt had refused to gripe about his predicament and was trying to push through. They just needed to get back to the inn, then he could sneak upstairs while Jaskier played for the drunkards and just sleep whatever this was off. He was fine, he'd suffered much worse in the trials. The dizziness spinning his world around and pitching black spots in his vision couldn't compare to when he was too disoriented to get out of bed; the nausea threatening to make itself known was far softer than the weeks of constant vomiting and dehydration he'd gone through; the sensory overload that was distracting him was barely noticeable versus the ones he'd had when he first got his senses, when a speck of light blinded him for a full day and the sounds of wind rustling scraped painfully at his sensitive ears. He was a witcher and he could make it to the inn…

After he paused for a bit, he needed to make sure those spots weren't actually sprites. They didn't seem to be going away; in fact they only seemed to multiply as he got more lightheaded. Maybe this was actually an enemy he could fight-

"Geralt…" The witcher found himself surprisingly startled at Jaskier's low murmur. He'd forgotten the bard was with him, sending alarm bells through his brain. He was so shocked at this development that he almost didn't hear Jaskier continue. "Geralt, I need you to get on Roach, alright? She'll be able to carry you back to the inn."

Geralt focused suddenly and the bard was correct; Roach was sitting, waiting for him to mount. He'd trained her to do that in emergency scenarios, though, was this an emergency? Surely he was fine. Maybe she was sitting for the bard. Had Jaskier gotten hurt? Was he dying? What if he died already and he hadn't saved him-

"Geralt!" Jaskier's (thankfully alive) voice snapped him back to attention, and he automatically mounted Roach. He was surprised when the bard slipped in behind him, though somehow he didn't find it to be unpleasant. "I need you to get Roach moving, alright? I'll guide her back to the inn after that."

He felt his leg swing over the saddle, and suddenly they were moving. Jaskier was behind him, and while normally that wasn't allowed, Geralt didn't complain; the bard was unintentionally (or maybe intentionally?) keeping the witcher steady as they went onward. The scenery kept changing faster than Geralt could process it, and even when he closed his eyes the dizziness kept his head spinning. His energy was draining fast now that he didn't have to walk, and he wanted nothing more than to fall asleep right then and there. He tried to keep himself awake though, and the bard's constant babbling assisted in his efforts. His voice was soft, so as to not bother the witcher's sensitive ears, but it was just loud enough to keep Geralt aware.

The ride came to a stop rather suddenly in his opinion, and it took all of his willpower to move from the saddle. Jaskier seemed eager to help him up (as though he knew something was wrong), and he kept close to Geralt's side as they walked back to the inn. Those twenty steps had been the most difficult challenge he'd had so far that day; the noises and smells alone were enough to make him want to run, and when he mistakenly opened his eyes, he could only see a sea of white with dancing colored spots before he snapped them shut again. 

He focused on keeping himself moving, walking side by side Jaskier without leaning into him (the bard wouldn't have been able to hold his weight). Thankfully Jaskier was taking the lead, guiding Geralt without prompting into the inn and up the stairs to their room. When he opened his eyes next, it was thankfully dark and quiet. The witcher then remembered, with pushed down disappointment, that there was only one bed; it was big enough for the both of them, certainly, but he wasn't sure if Jaskier would be interested in such an idea. He decided to leave the bed for the bard and tried to find a good spot on the floor to rest.

"Geralt, what are you doing?!" Okay, so Jaskier was against the floor plan. Should he try to sleep outside? He didn't want to go back out but if that was what the bard wanted-

Oh wait no, Jaskier was removing his armor for him. It felt nice to have that extra weight lifted off. The bard's touch lingered longer it should've, but the witcher found it to be grounding and didn't instinctively push him off. Jaskier helped Geralt lay down on the bed, cutting him off before he could protest.

"The bed's big enough for the both of us, Geralt. Besides, you look like you need it more than I do." A warm hand brushed hair back from his forehead, and he leaned into the touch before he could stop himself. "You don't have a fever, thankfully, but I know you've been hurting all day."

"'m fine." He mumbled weakly.

"Try to stand up then." He shot up from the bed to prove his health...and all the nausea he'd been feeling suddenly rushed from his gut to his throat. A bucket found its way under his chin at just the right moment.

"Okay maybe that was a bad idea." He heard beside him, a hand tracing down his back as he threw up what hopefully wasn't the White Honey he'd taken earlier. When his heaves turned to shudders, the bucket moved away and Geralt found himself pushed back down onto the bed. He was knocked out as soon as his head touched the pillow.


End file.
